


Marionette

by LokiOfTheSilverTongue



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AmeCan, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, Revolutionary War, USCan, War of 1812
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfTheSilverTongue/pseuds/LokiOfTheSilverTongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canada is a puppet. He just wishes America was pulling the strings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marionette

      _April 20, 1775_

     He should not be here. He should be back in his own house, away from this conflict and its possible consequences. Instead, he has a musket being thrust into his nervous hands and words being thrown at him until he's lost in the whirlwind of curses and orders and regret. He is already wearing a uniform that is much too heavy. It chafes under his arms and rubs against his damp neck. He hates it. Hates it and its uncanny red colour. He wouldn't dare express that thought aloud. Britain is yelling now. Canada can't tell if he's insulting America or accusing France or berating himself. Canada catches snippets of, "Blasted idiot," and, "Bad influence," and his personal favourite, "Absolute WANKER," being hurled in his vague direction. Canada does not feel bad at all. He wishes he did. He wishes he felt angry at America and sorry for Britain, but he doesn't. He can't feel anything for Britain but annoyance, currently. He can't quite understand why. Why his fists clench and unclench against the thick red material draped over his slight form.

      _It might have something to do with hushed conversations under oak trees. Excited whispers and a stolen spyglass. Canada had warned America not to take it from Britain's study, but when did America ever listen? It was worth it, anyway. The two colonies had played pirates for hours. Pretending that they were sailing and collecting gold and forgotten treasure. Until they were exhausted from running and shouting. Everything seemed to slow down. America had the ancient spyglass in one hand and Canada's palm in the other, using both their fingers to gesture at the fluffy clouds that riddled the gradually darkening sky. For a few moments, Canada forgot about France and being fought over. He forgot about Britain constantly forgetting his name. He even forgot about the strange language and culture that was being forced ( much like a burnt scone ) down his young throat. He was noticed, he was free, he was happy._  

"Can-Ca-Cana- you there!" Britain's voice cuts through the memory much like the bayonet attached to Canada's new weapon would cut through flesh. Hazily and with difficulty. "Are you even listening to me!?" Britain sputters. Canada nods quickly. His eyes are slightly glossy, he knows, but he keeps his back ridged. If Britain wants him to be a soldier, he'll do it. It's not as if he has a choice. Colonies rarely do. That is just another reason why all of this is happening now. Colonies rarely have a choice, and America was never one to take orders. "Good, so you know what you'll be doing?" Britain asks. He seems to have calmed down, somewhat. Canada does know what he'll be doing. He'll be fighting against America and France. Fighting against a childhood sweetheart and the country that raised him. He wants to spit those words at Britain, but his throat is made out of wood. He reminds himself of a puppet. He wishes that America was pulling the strings. 

    _August 20, 1864_

     There was too much smoke. He started the fire himself. He knows this. It may not have been his hands directly, but it is his fault. He wishes the United States would tell him differently. Or rather, he wishes America would tell him differently. Wishes that a young boy with large blue eyes would help him clear his head. America would comfort him, Canada is sure, if the nation wasn't clutching his chest in agony. Canada is standing over him ( and isn't that a change ) while he struggles to stand up. He manages to get to his knees before falling again. Canada wishes that he could run away from his own terrible handiwork, but is unable to coax his legs into running. Once again, Canada is wearing a British uniform. This one is new, but already crusted with blood and dirt. Ash is starting to collect on the edges, too. Canada holds his breath. Washington DC is burning. There are flames all around them. America looks up at Canada through ash dusted bangs. He is still handsome, Canada thinks, even when he's grimacing from the pain of a burn blossoming over his chest. Over his heart. There's the slightest bit of soot ghosted on America's lower lip. Canada focuses on that point. There's an odd sort of wanting. He wants to wipe the dust off of America's face, gently, cradle his head against his chest and never let him look this hurt again. It is strange. Canada had something to do with this. It was Britain's war, Britain's plan, but Canada helped it carry through. It reminds Canada too much of the Revolutionary War. Too much of America's disappointed stare directed towards him on the battlefield. America doesn't look disappointed anymore. He just looks tired. Even while a savage fire is searing his heart, searing him from the inside out, America still manages to look tired. Canada wants to look away, but America's eyes are piercing. They lock Canada in place and demand his attention. America's cheeks are speckled with soot. He looks like a puppy who's been kicked, and Canada feels a dull ache in his chest. 

"Why'd you do it?" America whispers. His voice is hoarse, from the fire or from yelling orders, it is unclear. Canada doesn't know what to say. He unsteadily drops to his knees next to America. Canada reaches out to touch the nation across from him, but the heat makes him wary. 

"There's nothing I can do," Canada murmurs, "I'm a puppet." For the first time since this war's began, tears drip down Canada's chin, landing in the dirt and ash that litter the ground. 

 

    _July 1, 1867_

     He's pretty sure that he's drunk. The champagne is less harsh tasting than he remembers it being, and the room feels warmer. He's celebrating. Celebrating finally being independent. Britain doesn't look happy, but Canada knows he'll come around. France seems more proud than anything. He's already given Canada a loud and dramatic 'You're A Man Now' speech, and is currently flitting around the large room, chatting with the guests before setting his sights on Britain. Canada winces as France gets a face full of champagne. Canada's a little tipsy, he's leaning against a table to steady himself. Though it's not like anyone would notice if he fell over. Canada sighs and looks around the room for... he's not quite sure. He's just searching. Without warning, there's a loud voice in his ear and a warmth in his side.

"Dude, nice party you got here!" America practically shouts, not seeming to care as Canada gasps and jumps. Drops of warm champagne fall onto the table behind them, having sloshed over the sides of Canada's glass. This is the first time since before the War of 1812 that Canada has actually had a good interaction with America. Canada thinks that he looks amazing. America is hardly dressed for the occasion, but his cheery smile and bright blue eyes are enough of a distraction for nobody to care. Though Canada could have sworn that he'd seen Britain shaking his head at America when he thought that nobody was looking. Distracted by the memory, Canada stumbles slightly. His rosy cheeks and lack of balance give him away to America, and the other country laughs. 

"Whoa dude, maybe you should go easy on the champagne!" He says good-naturedly, patting Canada on the back. Canada scowls lightly and puts the glass back on the table. 

"I've only had four, eh." Canada remarks indignantly. Although, there do seem to be more empty glasses there than he recalls. America just chuckles. He's much too close. Canada can feel warmth, practically heat, radiating from the other nation. America is as oblivious as always, talking about when they were younger and how Britain has been and was Canada eating enough because he seemed pale and this and that and this and that... Canada laughs. Genuinely laughs. He's not exactly sure why. It could be because America hasn't changed, not at all, and Canada has missed him, more than he knows. It could be because he's trying to eat hors d'oeuvres while talking to Canada and he almost chokes but still talks. It could be because at some point during the incessant chatter, America grabs Canada's hand and holds it tight in his own. Canada wonders if America knows what Canada's hands are capable of. They have hurt and helped to hurt and helped to burn. Canada hasn't forgiven himself, but America has no qualms. Canada leans closer to America, plucks the hors d'oeuvre out of the other nation's hand, and pushes their lips together. America stops talking. Nobody else has noticed. Canada pulls away quickly, embarrassed. The red in his cheeks is no longer just the effect of alcohol. America stays still, stunned, for just a moment, before wrapping his arms tightly around his neighbor. Canada goes limp, but soon regains himself and wraps his arms around America's neck. 

"I missed you." America whispers against Canada's ear. 

Canada feels like the strings have been cut.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I had to try to upload this like 3 times so I hope it was worth it


End file.
